Maybe this was an isolated occurrence. Maybe this was entirely unconnected to what was going on up at the reservation.

Maybe.

But he didn’t think so.

He drove to the real-estate office, turned in his keys, signed the papers, and got the hell out of Albuquerque as quickly as he could.

But the fear followed him all the way to Santa Fe.

And it did not abate that night or the following day.

TEN

Mark

Dry River.

Rounded propane tanks in white trash backyards, tilted clotheslines of rusty pipe, plastic toys in sandy dirt, Dobermans behind chain-link fence. Liquor store, noname market, Texaco gas station. The familiar hues and shades of the surrounding country: dark against light as the irregular shadows of clouds drifted, shifting, across low desert mountains.

Mark nodded his thanks to the man who’d dropped him off in front of the post office, watching him drive away before turning to survey the town. It was depressingly familiar after all these years, changed hardly at all. Past the bridge that spanned the town’s namesake, huge cottonwoods lined the street, shading the buildings below. There were several bicycles parked in front of the small brick library, cars in front of the bar. Two barefoot boys walked toward the trailer park pool, carrying towels. The only noises in the still air were the competing mechanical hums of swamp coolers and air conditioners, and the occasional cry of a high-circling hawk.

Down the road to his left was a new subdivision that had not made it—six identical homes on a dead-end cul-de-sac surrounded by several acres of cleared desert—but other than that, everything seemed to be the same. He started walking, moving past the diner, the tack and feed store, and an empty lot filled with enormous spools of telephone cable, until he could look east toward the ranches.

Sure enough, their house still towered over everything on the plain, its black bulk intimidating even from here.

Kristen.

His gaze swept immediately toward the cemetery on the opposite side of town. Should he go there first? Or should he seek out the mortuary?

No. He wanted to go home before anything. Wanted to see for himself what, if anything, had happened at the house. He hefted his backpack, slipped his arms through the straps, and started off toward Ranch Road.

He passed the high school on his way, saw boys in green and gold football uniforms skirmishing on the field. Saturday morning practice. He remembered it well. He’d joined nearly every school activity imaginable in order to get away from the house, and although he’d been a piss-poor athlete, he’d made it onto all of the varsity sports teams because there wouldn’t have been enough alternate players otherwise.